


The beams of our house are cedar

by gentle_herald



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asexuality, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shir HaShirim | Song of Songs, The Odyssey References, now with negotiated kink and no obsession with virginity, sex positive asexual character having sex, the dreaded/beloved wedding night fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 20:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18415061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald
Summary: Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south;blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.Let my beloved come into his garden,and eat his pleasant fruits.Song of Songs-themed smut.





	The beams of our house are cedar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OldShrewsburyian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/gifts).



> Thanks to Oldshrewsburyian for the beta and for the idea of making Aragorn asexual.

 

_ The voice of my beloved!  _

_ behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. _

_ My beloved is like a roe or a young hart:  _

_ behold, he  standeth  behind our wall,  _

_ he  looketh  forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice. _

_ My beloved  spake , and said unto me,  _

_ Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. _

_ For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; _

_ The flowers appear on the earth;  _

_ the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; _

_ The fig tree  putteth  forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.  _

_ Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. _

Arwen sinks into the steaming water. Rosemary floats around her, filling the dim room with its pungent early-spring smell. Aragorn could join her here, she thinks, though then they might never actually make it to the bed, and there are the maids helping with her bath to consider...  

Part of her wants to rush through her bath and go in to him, but no. They have come at last to a time and place that isn’t going to be snatched away from them, and this night will last as long as they drag it out. There is time. There is time. She closes her eyes and enjoys the water soft around her back, thighs, belly. She is soft and lazy and pliant except, if she thinks about it, for the tension in her cunt, and for a moment she wonders if this is what it’s like to be human - to be so rooted in this body, so anxious for the pleasure it promises.  

She wonders if this is the way Aragorn feels about his body and hers, but Aragorn has never seemed to burn with desire but with a pale steady flame that hungers more for a companion in his loneliness than a lover. When they lay together in Rivendell, he took pleasure in touching her and being touched, but the point seemed not to be desperate longing for her body but for intimacy in any form. The difference, he’d said once, wasn’t the hand on him but the arms around him while he touched himself.  

She dries herself, unwraps her hair, puts on a robe and goes in to him alone, carrying their history in this longed-for but strange city. Rivendell was lonely, and there were almost always cold roads and wilderness between them, and they have spent other men’s lifetimes hoping for this night, but still. They won’t be able to go back to Rivendell now, and she treasures their early days to the point of missing them. The curse of the elves.  

Aragorn has not bathed but has put on a nightshirt, and he is sitting in bed with the blankets over his legs – domesticity already, and it reassures her. It reminds her of cozy evenings in Rivendell when they’d read in bed. It reminds her how it felt to see him make her room his home, however temporarily. He holds her gaze. 

She reaches behind her, pulls out hairpins and unweaves her braid. Her hair, thick and dark and wavy from the day's formal style, falls over her breasts and shoulders, the broad plane of her back and the fat of her hips. The curly tips reach her ass so that when Aragorn runs his palm along the very top of it, he is running his hand through her hair as well. She stands still, leaning very slightly into his palm and savouring. 

 _Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely:_  

 _thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks._  

 _Thy neck is like the tower of David_ _builded_ _for an armoury,_  

 _whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men._  

 _Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies._  

In Rivendell their bed was made of cedar, honey coloured fragrant wood carved into the back wall of her room. That was the trunk of the last homely house; the other walls of her room were mostly open to the outside. They first slept together surrounded by the living wood, and she knows that the bridal bed in Minas Tirith can only be a pale imitation.  

But it is wide and soft and though it is maybe not truly their bed it contains their whole history when they are in it. Kneeling by him, she picks apart the laces at his neck and pulls the nightshirt over his head; he raises his arms to help and she only tangles it briefly. She kisses his mouth, acutely aware of his bare chest against her, its soft hair and its scars. She pulls back and opens her robe, dropping it by the side of the bed, and goes back to him, intent. Arwen lies back and pulls him on top of her, settling his weight onto her pelvis, her hips, one leg hooked over his. This is familiar, how satisfying and suggestive his body is over hers.  

When she closes her eyes she might be in Imladris except for the quiet. They have had so little time together over the years, and part of her, the part not impatient for more touch, luxuriates in the feeling of being held between his body and the bed. Aragorn kisses her, sloppy and tender, and for a while they grind against each other distractedly, vaguely, for the act itself without any real goal.  

Then Aragorn sits up and brings her with him, and runs his hands everywhere he couldn’t reach before. He draws his palms then nails up her sides, pinches her nipples, smooths his hands up the back of her shoulders over and over until she lies back and takes his broad, callused fingers and places them on her cunt.  He circles her clit hard with those rough fingers and oh – slips one inside and crooks it. They are just as filling as she’d hoped. She shoves her hips up into his hand and he smiles down at her through his long eyelashes and she reaches out to take his cock, enjoying its heaviness in her hand and the softness of his foreskin. Aragorn closes his eyes for a moment, face inscrutable, and she watches to see what he looks like as he falls apart under her hands.  

 _I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate._  

 _His left hand should be under my head,_  

 _and_ _his right hand should embrace me._  

Mmmh, she says, and sits up, his finger slipping out of her. She pushes him down on his back, bends over him, licks his nipple in little hard circles with the tip of her tongue while she keeps wanking him. He moans, a sound that makes her cunt throb and her want to bury her head in his chest and hold him tenderly, except that would undermine the purpose of all this…  

She keeps going, tongue circling on his throat now, under his ear, on the hard lines of his neck. When she presses lightly on his throat with her fingers, he arches his neck into the touch and moans again, louder, gasping. She does it again, and again, and then he comes, his whole body freezing for a second before he rolls onto his side facing her and opens his eyes. He pulls her down to lie beside him and kisses her deeply. They stay like that until he comes down from his orgasm and she starts moving restlessly against his thigh.  

Then he crawls down the bed until he has his face at her cunt and licks, very gently. It’s nowhere near enough, and Arwen twines her hand in his hair and pushes his face down again. In response he reaches up for her, running his hand up her waist, pinching her nipple, resting his palm below her navel. Even through her desperate haze, she loves his rough palms sliding so gently over the vulnerable parts of her. His tongue goes to her clit and the pleasure builds slowly, maddeningly. She has to resist the urge to bring her hand down, to rub herself hard and fast, but she knows their agreement. Instead, she forces herself to wait, helpless to do anything but feel. All her attention focuses on the sweet agony of barely-not-enough, which goes on and on until she wonders that her body can hold all that pleasure without coming, and then she does, hot and liquid and helpless under Aragorn’s anchoring hands.  

 _Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south;_  

 _blow_ _upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out._  

 _Let my beloved come into his garden,_  

 _and_ _eat his pleasant fruits._  

The wind rises in the night. If they were in Lorien the flets would be bouncing, but secure even if they don't feel it. In Rivendell, the north wind would whistle over the top of the valley and the pines would thrash louder than the gusts. They would rest with his hand between her thighs, their sign of trust and desire to hold each other as long as they could. Here, now, Arwen wakes over and over and would be frustrated except that he is there, his face soft and blank and closed. When he came, it was quiet shuddering, holding the pleasure in himself like he has held weariness and hope. She wonders if he might whimper under her if given the chance. She wonders if he ever loses control, what he looks like completely surrendered to his body and sensation. She makes herself as comfortable as she can without taking her hand from his waist, approximates her usual sleeping position, and drifts.   

She knew he wakes early with a ranger and campaigner's inability to let himself rest. For the first time, she is glad of it, because the morning does not mean he will have to strap on his vambraces and leave but that there will be business of state. And any time before that is theirs. And, novel and wondrous, there will be time after. There will be evenings to be looked forward to and confident of, for friends and poems and bed. 

 _Behold his bed, which is Solomon’s;_  

 _threescore_ _valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel._  

 _They all hold swords, being expert in war:_  

 _every_ _man hath his sword upon his thigh_  

 _because_ _of fear in the night._  

When he sees that Arwen is awake he rolls over and kisses her, body warm, hands only half awake enough to grip. He runs his free hand up and down her side, reaches over her thigh, slides his fingertips along her cunt from behind. She keeps kissing him sleepily, torn between lolling in the softness of Aragorn's arms and the pillows and grinding down on his hand.  

  
_I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not up,_  

 _nor_ _awake my love, until he please_ _._  


End file.
